


the cake is metaphorical (but, like, it’s also literal, cuz there is still actual cake here, or else the angel would complain rather a lot)

by IneffableDoll



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: "please laugh", Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexuality, Developing Relationship, Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, IT'S A LOCKDOWN FIC Y'ALL, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, THE MORTIFYING ORDEAL OF BAKING CAKE, rating for language in chapter 2, the author has opinions about people who refuse to stay at home and expresses them willingly, there's so much cake you guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24150010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableDoll/pseuds/IneffableDoll
Summary: Aziraphale knew he would not be able to use cakes to get his mind off that awkward phone call when his eyes hovered on a recipe for an apple cake.He couldn’t help but chuckle. Perhaps it was inappropriate.But.OR:My preferred summary, the mortifying ordeal of baking cake.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 79
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens, Good Omens Lockdown fics





	1. in which an angel dithers

**Author's Note:**

> My titling skills are off the charts.  
> I resisted for over a WEEK, but it should come as no surprise that I had to give in eventually and add to the growing collection of lockdown fics. This was just going to be the one chapter, but then I wrote a second one. Whoops. I had a lot of fun writing this, so I hope you enjoy it!

_“Goodnight, angel.”_

A low beep hummed from the receiver and Aziraphale placed it gently down to silence it, feeling vaguely off-kilter.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone but burglars for a solid two months now and, at the first bit of social interaction, he’d – what, rambled about cakes and sourdough? He’d really just wanted to talk to Crowley, check in, see how he was doing. And then the demon had asked to come over and he’d been so flustered he shut him down utterly and completely. After all, what a suggestion! Utterly inappropriate on so many levels, surely.

It…wouldn’t have been bad, to have the demon over. But still. What a breach of etiquette, or something akin.

That Armageddon business was now, what, nine months past? Yes, that seemed right. Plenty of time for them to settle into their new routine, quite comfortably. Freedom was a good look on them, if he was ever in the mood to admit it. Occasionally meeting up, a few times a month (or week when he was particularly self-indulgent). Dining out, walks in the park, drinks at the shop. They’d even spent an evening at Crowley’s flat again, which had significantly improved in hominess now that Hell wasn’t around to judge his interior décor. Or at least, Aziraphale assumed that was why he now had throw rugs and a coffee table covered in magazines and a basket of wax fruits on the island in his kitchen.

But then, apparently, Pestilence came out of retirement for a little stint. He’d even received a message from Heaven about it, the first since the whole execution business, merely letting him know of the matter. As usual, his miracles couldn’t do anything against the, er, _five_ horsepersons, but he did make an attempt, nonetheless.

Thank God this looked nothing like the plagues of old. Bodies lining the streets, wheelbarrows and “bring out your dead” and mass graves and the wailing that never seemed to end…

It was best not to dwell there.

Point was that this was nothing like that. Humans, in their ingenuity, had progressed so far in medical studies and their understanding of bacteria, the four humors long since abandoned as a concept. And no more bloodletting, thank the Lord!

Aziraphale had no doubt they’d get a reign on this nonsense in no time, and even as it spread, he saw the calls to flatten the curve and protect each other, the elderly and the immune-deficient and the disabled and the young. There were always those who resisted, those who made stupid, selfish decisions. Those who protested the stay-at-home orders, insisting it was a “breach of their constitutional rights” somehow, and those who refused to practice social distancing, but even they could not dampen his confidence in humanity’s ability to overcome, always.

Back to the matter at hand, he realized he’d been staring off into nothing for some time. “Right,” he murmured, slapping his thighs before rising. “Perhaps another cake?”

He perused his cookbook section – he honestly had forgotten about it, so rarely was he called upon to utilize its contents but was nonetheless grateful for it now – searching for the perfect cake to settle this uncomfortable feeling that had washed over him after the abrupt conclusion to his chat with Crowley.

His eyes flitted over recipe after recipe, hesitating for a long, long moment over one for a delectable devil’s food cake…but no, that was a bit, er.

Anyway.

Butter cake. Red velvet cake. Carrot cake, black forest gateau, coconut and Swiss rolls and tiramisu and chocolate and coffee cake and Esterházy torte and cherry cheesecake…

Aziraphale knew he would not be able to use cakes to get his mind off that awkward phone call when his eyes hovered on a recipe for an _apple_ cake.

Six thousand years, and he honestly hadn’t known that was a thing. Pies, of course, and crumbles and sauce and fritters and – and cider, right?

And apple _cake._

He couldn’t help but chuckle. Perhaps it was inappropriate. Even more so than letting Crowley break the lockdown to _slither over_. But, well, what was it that Crowley had said before?

He did have perhaps a smidge of a Bastard Streak, and just imaging Crowley’s indignation was enough to make him turn on heel and continue up the stairs to his flat and subsequent kitchenware, humming a jaunty tune.

Besides, he knew the demon had a sweet tooth.

Butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla extract, flour, baking soda, cinnamon, salt, apples (miracled in, sadly), and chopped walnuts (also miracled; no one keeps walnuts on hand). It took a total of two and a half hours, with his methodical shredding and slicing of the fruits and nuts in question, and double-checking each measurement thrice before adding it to the appropriate bowl. He also refused to use an electric mixer, feeling that it altered the authentic experience of baking (having never had the mortal experience of stirring batter for half an hour, with muscles capable of getting sore, this incorrect opinion may be excused in this one instance).

All in all, the toothpick came out clean, a slice was cut and dolloped with vanilla ice cream (not miracled in, actually; he made it from scratch because what kind of an angel do you think he is? One who goes by half measures? Look at his bookshop.) and the apple cake was done, smelling fragrantly spiced, with that sweet late autumn aroma of warm apples.

Turning the plate every which way – it was a fine Victorian selection attempting failingly to depict Eden, one typically used for display, but Aziraphale had plates with _purpose_ , thank you – he nodded with a satisfied huff and snapped his fingers. The plate popped out of existence and back in, across the city in Mayfair.

He sat himself in his armchair to read, but after twenty minutes he anxiously checked his ancient grandfather clock, unsure what exactly had him on needles. He supposed maybe he’d expected Crowley to call and tease him about his fruit of choice.

It was well past midnight, he realized with a start. The demon might be asleep. Actually, he had said two days, hadn’t he? He wouldn’t have reneged on that, surely. Crowley said he’d wait the two days before taking a nap. Which could’ve been a lie, of course. Demon and such hullabaloo. Maybe he meant he’d still sleep at night, though, and the cake would get cold and the ice cream would me-

Aziraphale jumped when he felt a slight shift in the universe, indicating a nearby miracle. When he returned to his kitchen, sure enough, there was an empty plate and fork, cleaned and dried, nary a crumb to be seen. On the center of the plate sat a peach.

Aziraphale smiled softly to himself.

Message received.

Following the peach pie was a lemon meringue, then key lime pie and custard tart and eclairs. He made something new for Crowley every day, typically by request of whatever sat on the plate when it came back. He was more than a little gratified that this continued well past the two-day limit Crowley had mentioned before.

Guess he had something worth staying awake for, Aziraphale thought smugly.

Eventually, he had no choice but to give in to baking a devil’s food cake when Crowley left a post-it note, scrawled with a tiny drawing of a horned character. Aziraphale sighed and stuck the pink post-it on his fridge.

That plate didn’t reappear for a solid three days after he sent it over, during with Aziraphale fretted himself in circles that he’d misinterpreted or somehow insulted the demon with his dessert. Or maybe it had tasted bad, or maybe he hadn’t sent it over properly. Maybe he should make something else and send it on a new plate. Maybe the demon had given up on their little game and decided to go to sleep, after all. July! It would be until July before he saw the demon again. Oh, what a fool he was.

But the plate did come back, not with a suggestion for the next dessert as had become usual, but with a single slice of angel’s food cake.

It was less than perfect, Aziraphale observed gently. Made by the hands of one who never baked, obviously, and not nearly so attractive as the one Aziraphale had made a few weeks back. It was perhaps overdone, just a smidge, and slightly lopsided, with a dozen blueberries haphazardly girding it.

But.

Crowley had made it.

 _Made_ it.

Aziraphale picked up the proffered fork and took a tentative bite. It was very dry and dense, lacking the typical fluffiness of angel’s food and the sugary crumble was too caramelized. Really, he wasn’t certain it could be accurately classified as angel’s food cake, other than there was simply nothing else it could be.

Aziraphale beamed, despite it all, _because of it all_ , his chest doing strange, fluttery, human-y things. With a sudden burst of clarity, he wasted no time rushing down the stairs and snatching up his receiver, not bothering to dial. The phone knew who to call.

“Crowley,” he breathed as soon as the other picked up. Without allowing time for him to respond, he rushed headlong, “Want to come over?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s an apple cake recipe: https://www.bettycrocker.com/recipes/homemade-apple-cake/5427daa2-21ac-4b09-bb6e-4c24437500ce


	2. in which a demon tries his best

When Crowley felt the cosmos blink in his kitchen, his first thought was of Hell.

After nine months of radio silence, they’d finally come for him, to drag him back. He burst from his bed, where he was lounging in nothing but sweatpants, and rushed out, weaponless, to thwart his fate or die trying, adrenaline pumping through his demonic veins.

His eyes settled on a slice of cake and with a _whoosh_ , all his tense energy evaporated.

He knew, logically, that it was unlikely Hell – or Heaven – would get back to them anytime soon, not after their last stunt. But the paranoid part of him knew it was only a matter of time. Maybe a few centuries, a millennium at best, before they figured out their trick or decided to try again. And he refused to be caught unawares; he would be ready for them.

However, after almost a year, he had to admit the constant vigilance was draining. And pointless. Really, he knew it was safe now, even if it was temporary. After all they’d done, they deserved this break, didn’t they? He was free from Hell, for the first time since the Fall. So, he decided to savor it.

Nonetheless, he still had moments like this when he ran on nothing but the terrified fumes of a burning bookshop and the overwhelming surge of despair as Satan burst from the tarmac. Hard to forget stuff like that.

But, right now, he was in his damn kitchen. He had a bowl of wax fruit that he mostly hated but kept because he didn’t know what else one was supposed to decorate a kitchen with (and what is the damn point of fake fruit, exactly?).

More importantly, a slice of cake. With ice cream.

He stepped closer. Even if he hadn’t recognized the plate on sight (which he did; they’d spent an evening laughing over how inaccurate it was a couple centuries back), he still would’ve known immediately that it was from Aziraphale. The angel had sent him _blessed_ cake in the middle of the blessed night, really? It would’ve been unbelievable if it wasn’t just like him in an odd sort of way.

With a beleaguered sigh, he took up the fork and had a bite.

He closed his eyes.

Fucking _apple._

He grinned into the semidarkness of his flat as disbelief and amusement flooded his veins, shaking his head and chuckling.

“Fucking apple,” he repeated aloud, because he felt like it needed to be said.

After all the angel’s talk of “breaking all the rules” and “out of the question,” not even a day later, he was baking cake for him. Apple cake. For _him_. And he knew it was for him, because Aziraphale had listed all his baking endeavors during their phone call and this had not been one of them.

And, really, who else would he bake an _apple_ cake for? The utter cheek of the bastard.

Crowley, as a rule, perhaps should have liked apples rather a lot more than he did, but food, in general, wasn’t really his vibe. Grapes were as close as he got, so long as they were fermented and liquid and preferably red over white. But he did indulge in something sugary now and again – not because he necessary liked sweet things or anything. He was a demon. Demons liked bitter coffee and rare steaks and…other things Crowley couldn’t stand.

As he thought, he ate the remainder of the cake. It was spongy and heavy on the cinnamon. The apple actually wasn’t so bad like this, mixed among the flavorful cake bits. The vanilla ice cream was good, too. Quite, well, creamy. Vanilla-y.

Selfishly, he wondered if he could get Aziraphale to make him something else, or even to just send another slice of this. It was…okay, more than a _little_ depressing, yes, to be eating a friend’s cake alone in the low lighting of one’s cold, austere kitchen, windows pulled tight against the night chill. But it was better than anything else he’d been doing the past month, which included but was not limited to reorganizing his records by the seventh word on the second track and making fake accounts to follow Michael Sheen on Twitter.

He snapped and a peach appeared in his hand. He wondered if Aziraphale would get the reference to the peach tree that he’d used to climb the Eastern Wall way back when, but highly doubted it. Another snap later and the plate, now clean, and its new friend, hopped across London.

After a few minutes of considering returning to his bed, he settled into his leather sofa and found a channel with _Golden Girls_ reruns. He always found them when he wanted them because he expected there was always at least one channel with _Golden Girls_ reruns, and as a result, he was right. Old folk across the country celebrated this fact.

When a quarter of a peach pie appeared the next evening, edges crimped and browned to perfection, Crowley sent the plate back with a lemon. He hated lemons but was genuinely curious to know what Aziraphale would do with it.

The lemon meringue was not his thing at all, but he ate it all anyway. At that point, it’d already been two days since he’d said he’d go to sleep, but even if most of these days were a complete drag (he was seriously considering asking Aziraphale for book recommendations at this point), this little interaction of theirs was much too fun to pass up, and he rather wanted to know how long he could keep it going.

Aziraphale had never really done anything like this, was the thing. Usually, it was Crowley doing the gifts and the acts of service and miracling away paintball stains and such, but he'd never been on the receiving end of it.

He understood why Aziraphale stuck around him now. It was rather nice. To feel like someone was taking care of him (not that he needed taking care of, obviously. He’s a big demon, he can tie his own shoes).

Nonetheless, it went against everything in his nature to receive when he was the one who gave – er, not _nature_ so much as an acquired _habit_ – so an idea began brewing by the time the custard tart arrived another two days later.

He honestly hadn’t intended anything with the devil emoji, was the thing. He was just out of ideas and thought it would be funny. Not that Aziraphale would get that it was an emoji, after all, but still.

When a chocolate monstrosity appeared on his table the next day, it took Crowley multiple minutes to make the connection.

Devil’s food cake.

Oh, precious, _precious_ angel.

He ate it slowly, trying to savor it like Aziraphale did his every bite, but it was still gone in minutes. He felt weirdly overwhelmed, but as soon as he finished, became firmly determined.

Crowley never cooked or baked anything. Sure, sometimes, he miracled food, but that was usually just things he transported from shops and paid for in credit like a proper demon. It was, by technicality, not a demon’s thing to create. That was for angels and gods.

Still. Couldn’t hurt to try.

Crowley spent the next twenty-four hours on YouTube watching baking videos. _Hell’s Kitchen_ clips took up a large chunk of that for the name alone and was largely unhelpful. A quick Google search for “angels food cake recipe” gave him something by Alton Brown that was described as “Intermediate” and seemed simple enough. He didn’t have any of the ingredients for it, including the cooking ware (“The fuck is a balloon whisk?”), but a flick of the wrist easily fixed that.

But he wouldn’t miracle the cake. Aziraphale had clearly baked his cakes the human way, and if the angel could, then so could he, bless it.

After learning how to use the food processor, he had to figure out how the fuck to separate the egg whites from the yolk. A quick look online showed people using empty plastic water bottles to suction the yolk, but he only had reusable bottles because pollution wasn’t his department, thank you. After ruining two dozen eggs, he finally had enough whites to work with.

The hand mixer vibrated much more than was strictly necessary, he felt. He’d also forgotten to plug it in, but, much like his refrigerator, it didn’t seem to mind.

To summarize the following two days of torment, it was five cake attempts later before he had something that looked vaguely like the picture online. He sprinkled a few blueberries on the plate rather unattractively, entirely unsure how it looked so nice the way Alton did it, and sent off his creation with a defeated sigh.

Aziraphale would hate it. It looked bloody awful. Maybe he should’ve watched more Food Network.

He flopped onto his bed, worn through. Perhaps he really would take a nap, now. It was usually a day before Aziraphale sent anything back, so he could play it safe and set an alarm for 22 hours. He was just about to do that when the screen lit up with an “Angel<3” and the opening notes to a song very subtly titled “Love of My Life” by exactly the band one may presume.

Crowley lifted his eyebrows. Aziraphale hadn’t called since their last attempt at interacting like normal, social beings and failing in every possible capacity. Maybe he was upset at Crowley for the cake, or for taking so long with it. He answered, anyway, prepared to deal with angelic haughtiness and grumbling as wasn’t exactly unheard of.

 _“Crowley_ ,” came the breathless voice through the speaker, sounding rather like he’d run down the stairs to call him. Considering it’d been about thirty seconds since Crowley sent the cake over to the flat above the shop, Aziraphale probably had. Before he could reply, the angel said in a rush, “ _Want to come over?”_

Crowley blinked at the wall. That was unexpected. “Um. I suppose I could make time.”

“ _Oh. Oh, lovely!”_ Came the reply. _“You, er, said something about bringing a case of something drinkable, I believe?”_

Crowley felt himself smiling and couldn’t even pretend to try dampening it. The angel was inviting him over; maybe he wouldn’t have to spend the lockdown alone, after all. What was this called? Merging isolation spots or something? He could swear there was a term for it. “Yeah,” he agreed, “and I said something about watching you eat cake.”

 _“Ah, yes. Well. I do believe…both of those, er, prerogatives could be acquainted with. But,_ ” he added quickly, _“don’t let anyone see you coming over. Don’t want to be a bad infl- well, I suppose you do, but…”_

Crowley ignored the fact that he’d already addressed this in their last call. Beaming like a maniac, he said, “Aziraphale, set down the receiver and step back, would you?”

_“Whatever for, dear?”_

“Just do it.”

Riding the phone lines was really so much more pleasant when not being chased by a toad demon, he mused when he appeared with a clatter in the bookshop, case of Châteauneuf-du-Pape in tow, startled angel in his line of sight. He’d miracled some proper clothing on during the ride, sans jacket.

“Hello, angel,” he said, grinning and lifting his burdened hand slightly. “I’ve brought alcohol.”

The angel blinked and straightened his unrumpled lapels before returning the smile. “I forgot you can do that. With the phone, I mean. Seems terribly uncomfortable.”

“Not so bad when you get used to it,” he commented airily, knowing Aziraphale would get the reference. Looking around at the bookshop, he felt himself settle with a sense of rightness, belonging, even, like this was exactly where he was supposed to be. “So. Cake, yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the angel’s food cake recipe: https://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/alton-brown/angel-food-cake-recipe-1938726  
> My favorite part of writing this fic was that Aziraphale put Crowley’s post-it note doodle on his fridge, like a child’s crayon drawing.  
> Optional addition:  
> “You – you fucking…on the fridge! Am I your kindergartener, Aziraphale? Are you gonna frame my macaroni art?”  
> Aziraphale most certainly did not smirk. Maybe wrinkled his nose a little. “If you make some, you know I will.”  
> “Fuck off.”


End file.
